Why I Love Doctors…

Post-It on my fridge for the past 3 months…

Dr. Wellington, Oak Ridge, 9:30am, May 31st.

I showered, dried, powdered and managed to find a pair of “newish” undies (since when you go to see the Doc sometimes they like to check on your tackle.) I headed out for the specialist’s at 8am, it’s a little more than an hour to Oak Ridge.

This was a routine visit, one I have with him every 3 months. Nurse Dracul sucked two vials of deep red liquid and offered me a urine cup. Too bad they had told me “don’t eat or drink anything within 12 hours of your visit.” They should have also told me to “hold your pee because we’re going to demand it when you get here.”

I sometimes wonder if the Docs and nurses secretly laugh behind your back when they tell you the instructions for your next visit. “You won’t believe what I told him…just wait till he gets here, all dehydrated, then I demand 5 liters of fresh urine.”

When I got to the little boys’ room I looked around in vain for an occupied stall or urinal with a willing accomplish to pee in my little cup. Damn, it’s a one holer.

Before donning a wig and heading into the girl’s room, I decided to at least give it a try.

The rest of my body commanded: “C’mon little guy,” wait, that’s not what I meant. “C’mon Richard”–they call him Dick for short, oh wait, that’s not right either. “C’mon LEVIATHAN, all we need is a trickle. Give me a trickle. You owe us. What? You don’t think you owe us? Where would you be without us Eyes? Where would you be without Imagination? Heck, how ’bout going through life without an opposable THUMB? Yeah, I thought so. Now get the job done, biotch.”

After a couple hernia producing minutes, I was able to produce the required “1/4 to ½” cup. I considered giving them a sample of something different, but I wasn’t sure if hatchet face Dracul the Impaler would see that as a funny or a come on.

On Cindy Crawford a mole might be sexy, but if it’s the size of a Bavarian quarter piece with hair and looks like a spider attached to her face, that’s not sexy. Nurse Dracul had twin spiders—one on the lower left side of her cleft chin and one on her right upper cheek. I wondered if the arachnid near her right eye ever got one of its hair legs caught in her eyelashes.

Because I secretly know Dracul uses larger gauge needles on me than required, I managed to “accidentally” spill some sample on the outside of the cup. Oops!

Once I got finished being a human dart board, I was escorted into the exam room—an ancient cubical of half-walls of yellow oblong tiles, harsh fluorescent light with that little miner’s light looking thing hanging from a hook on the wall. Funny, after 43 years of going to Doctors, I’ve never seen that used.

Nurse Dracul, still with a slight line of blood running down the edge of her mouth, opened the door and motioned me in. The exam table had the stirrups fully extended and I had the image of me positioned there, spread eagle, with the Doc inserting various alien abduction inspired implements into my nether regions.

“I hope those won’t be necessary” I nervously joked. Nurse Dracul didn’t break a smile—she just pointed to the neatly folded paper smock on the table and started to exit the room, “Do I need to disrobe?” (Did I just say “disrobe”? What a dork. I was clearly outmatched here.)

She narrowed her eyes to lightless slits and gestured angrily at the paper drape, then turned with Nazi like precision, goose-stepped out of the room toward her next victim, I mean “patient”. The door made a sharp clang as it closed—kinda like a cell door.

I stripped to my socks and boxers, and tried to put the yellow paper smock around me. One thing I have discovered about paper smocks: You can never look cool and confident in a paper smock. You’ll never see a guy at a singles bar saunter up to a hot girl in a paper smock, socks and boxers and say, “Hey Baby, how ‘bouts you and me go back to my place and I’ll show you what’s under the smock?”

To make it worse, I am one of those infamous “big and tall” guys. While I haven’t been as active lately, I used to work out. (By the way, “I used to work out” is a favorite phrase of overweight 40+ men—it’s a fantasy we all have, that women still think we’re hot. But I digress…)

I weigh 217 at 6’ tall. All muscle baby. (OK, mostly. Well, not really mostly, but my chest is bigger than my gut. But my butt is even smaller.)

I stood there, boxers, socks and papyrus covering and admired myself in the mirror. I looked like a giant legal pad. Or worse. I decided to take my “comfy” seat on the exam table and wait.

I have been to enough Docs to know this wait is the hardest—especially when you think you are seriously ill. So, I was smart this time—I brought the paperback my Mom gave me this past weekend, one of Ann Rule’s true crime novels.

I would tell you the actual title, but I can’t. You see I remembered to bring the book, but I did not bring my reading glasses. Paperbacks have tiny print. I have horrible eyesight. You get the picture—I just can’t see it.

So I was doomed to a wait of anxious doomsdaying while my diligent professional sees other, more valuable, patients. The wait: 1 hour and 12 minutes.

Sure, most of the 72 minutes was foreplay, I could hear his booming voice right next to my door, I would straighten my back and smooth my paper smock for his arrival. Then, just as my breathless heart was ready for him to open the door, nothing. The anticlimax of minutes of sweaty anticipation frustrated as he saw yet another.

What’s wrong with me? Am I not a desirable patient? I have Blue Cross, would he pay more attention if I had Humana? Maybe he’s a Dr. House—only caring if I have some elusive Africa/South America/Indo-China strain of a rare primate parasite only previously found in the bowels of Hindu cows and transmitted only by ingestion of dung beetles?

Am I not a worthy patient? Maybe I should feign a heart ailment or press the call button claiming not to be able to breath?

No, self-control prevails and I turn my attention to the “art work” on the walls.

A pregnant woman bisected to show the baby happily resting in her half-mom’s uterus. Somehow the band saw missed the baby. The visual extravaganza which is peripheral artery disease—much more exciting than the commercials.

Then, without warning, while my breezy butt was still toward the door, Dr. Wonderful pops in. I humbly return to my perch amid the stirrups and wait for his questions.

“Hi Kevin,” he shook my hand. “Let’s see what we have here.”

He went through my charts. Everything was negative. My A1C showed my diabetes had decided to be more “sweet” than usual. (Did you get that pun? You see, diabetes is about having too much sugar in your…oh, never mind.) My urine showed an increase in protein (meaning my kidneys don’t love me like they used to.) My VO2 max was down (meaning my lungs aren’t giving me the oxygen they used to.) My blood pressure was averaging 160/100—not deadly but not good.

So imagine my surprise when, after spending 10 minutes talking to me, he turned to me and said, “you’re doing great.”

Now I should point out at this point I came to this appointment more than a little apprehensive. I had been having chest pains for two weeks. My blood pressure, which had been previously well controlled with medication, was too high. I was on the maximum dose of every blood pressure medication available today. I was getting winded after walking just a half-dozen steps—and I am a guy who was used to walking 3 miles a day.

But my mood was vastly improved over the last time he talked to me. I felt like I could take action to try and correct the problems I am having.

So, as I shook his hand and was directed to the payment area, I wondered: Do I have too little optimism or does Doc have too much? I decided I would stop feeling sorry for myself and just do my best to have a long future—how ever long may be.

Maybe Doc understands that believing you can is more important than test results. I hope he’s right.